whiffet

"I never felt sorry for the little whiffet before," said the fat jailer, when he came out.

“Turn to one—of our—old favorites,” poor old Whiffet murmured, still fumbling the pages of the book.

“Open to page—” still groping was Philomel Whiffet and squinting at the faded pages.

And before Philomel Whiffet knew what had happened, sopranos, altos, and bass had taken up the tune.

Whiffet, Skiffet and Skud led a jolly life in the old chestnut tree.